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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23161924">T-Cups</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/anglaland/pseuds/anglaland'>anglaland</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crack, Established Relationship, F/M, Featuring America's stupidly powerful strength, Fluff and Humor, Modern Day, Reverse Cowgirl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:22:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,546</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23161924</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/anglaland/pseuds/anglaland</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>America has a gag gift for England. </p><p>Based on <a href="http://cdn.funnyisms.com/6257638f-56fe-4604-a162-967c783d3901.jpg">this</a> tumblr post.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>America/England (Hetalia), America/Female England (Hetalia)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>T-Cups</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>England is sitting in America’s living room, predictably curled up with a post-supper cup of tea, when America rounds the corner. Soft, yellow light, bathes the room, easy on the eyes for a quiet evening. It softens her face and sinks into her hair, lulling him into a sense of domesticity. As he steps forward, England catches his movement. At first, she only gives him the barest of assessments, before a familiar furrow finds itself between her eyebrows. “Bringing in the post this late?” she asks, mug halfway to her lips.</p><p>America grins. “Nah, I’ve had this one waiting for a while.” He crosses the living room in two long strides before plopping down ungracefully next to England (who reflexively leans forward, holding her tea carefully out of reach). In between them is a simple gift-wrapped box.</p><p>Nothing is ever simple with America.</p><p>Setting her tea down (<em> away </em> from America), England shifts on the couch, turning to face her gifter. “Do I even want to know what this is about?” she grouses, but her fingers trace the edges of the lid with carefully restrained excitement. </p><p>“What,” America says, leaning back with mock affront, hand placed over his heart, “a guy can’t buy a gift for the gal he likes? And you say romance is dead, England.” She scoffs at his melodrama, but America is already shaking his head, committed to the routine. “I thought you, of all people, would appreciate a little sentiment...but if you’re really against it…”</p><p>“Alright, enough with the theatrics!” she cuts in, yet there’s a smile playing on her lips. “You really ought to work on your guilt-tripping, it’s absolutely awful.”</p><p>Laughing, America pushes the box closer to her. “It worked, didn’t it?”</p><p>“I suppose it did,” England concedes. She looks up at America through her eyelashes, and America is suddenly aware of the closeness between them. If it wasn’t for what was in the box, he might have leaned in to steal a kiss. “Thank you, really,” she says.  “I do appreciate it.”</p><p>America returns the smile, and hopes it looks equally melting and not at all conniving. “I’m glad. When I first saw this, I knew I had to get it for you.”</p><p>He nudges the box even closer, and, poker face in place, watches as England lifts up the cover of the box...and stares. </p><p>Inside is a single bra.  </p><p>America observes, with glee, as her face transforms from fondness to confusion. </p><p>The cups of the bra have tea cups jutting out of them.</p><p>“Wha—” she begins to say, before realization dawns across her face, abruptly blanking her features. </p><p>She looks at America. Back to the box. Back to America, whose face is now in an ear-splitting grin, and who is shaking from restrained laughter. </p><p>“I should have known better,” she mutters, halfway standing up off the sofa. America jumps up to cut her off from leaving the room, finally succumbing to howling peals of laughter as he pushes her back down on the couch. “Ugh—get <em> off </em>,” she grunts, but America is shaking too hard from his mirth to listen properly. </p><p>“It’s just—ain’t it—isn’t it great?!” America chokes out, gesturing to the box. “It’s perfect for you. C’mon, you’ve got to wear it,”</p><p>“Hilarious. Your sense of humor continues to astound me,” England deadpans. “...did you really buy a brassiere with tea cups attached? Where on earth did you even find such a thing?”</p><p>Seeing that England has transitioned from denial to acceptance, America lifts the teacup bra out of the box, pushing the container away so he can sit. “It’s a long story,” he handwaves away. “But onto the more important issue—England, it’s pretty much your national duty to wear it.”</p><p>“Absolutely not,” says England. “You know, just because I drink tea doesn’t mean that I’m obsessed with it!”</p><p>America stares at her. “You literally went to <em> war </em> over tea. You drink multiple cups every single day. Hell, you and China even set up tea stations in meeting rooms because breaks aren’t enough for y’all. You’re drinking tea <em> right now! </em>”</p><p>“That’s just a coincidence,” she insists. “I suppose to someone like you, who can’t appreciate the appeal of a proper cuppa—”</p><p>“—there isn’t any, by the way—”</p><p>“—it might come off as obsession, but really, there is nothing unreasonable about it.”</p><p>America disagrees, but the conversation is getting away from his real purpose: seeing England half naked in this bra. Never let anyone say America couldn’t prioritize when he really needed to. “So it isn’t completely unreasonable,” he lies through his teeth. “But—” </p><p>England is crossing her arms and settling back on the sofa, fully prepared to continue being stubborn. Fuck it, he isn’t above begging at this point. “...alright,” he says, affecting a defeated tone. “If you’re really against it, I won’t push.”</p><p>England is squinting at him, obviously in disbelief. America dramatically slows his movements and turns to stuff the bra back into the box, letting the teacups obnoxiously clink against each other. “It’s just a gag gift, anyway. Thought it be funny ya know, but I know British humor is like advanced, or whatever, so guess it isn’t…”</p><p>An arm reaches around him to snatch the box out of his hands. “I’ll wear it,” England huffs. “Just this once. And I thought I told you to cease the theatrics.”</p><p>America beams, and doesn’t mention that it’s worked twice now. “Aw, England, you’re the best!” He grins, and leans in quickly to peck at her lips. Red splotches appear on her cheeks, and she looks away in pretend annoyance, but he can see her suppress the curves of a smile. </p><p>“Well, turn around, at the very least,” she demands with mock modesty (as if last night never occurred…), and America is in a good enough mood that he obliges. </p><p>He can hear the clinking of the cups as she puzzles out how to wear the garment. Finally, she announces that he can turn back around.</p><p>“Ta da,” England says, waving her hands with mock pizzazz. </p><p>It’s...<em> it’s better than expected </em>. </p><p>The overall look is surprisingly attractive. The cups jut out, affecting a busty illusion, but oddly seem to accentuate the roundness of her breasts.  Covered in the soft glow of the lamp, hair down and loose over her shoulders, America is distracted for a brief second.  </p><p>England raises an expectant eyebrow. “Does it match your expectations?”</p><p>“Oh yeah, it’s great,” America says in a faraway voice. He reaches out to hook his fingers through the handles of the teacups, fitting his hands over the curve of her breasts. He tugs downwards, and England winces as the straps dig into her shoulders. </p><p>After a moment, America says, “You gotta admit, it is pretty funny though.”</p><p>England eyes America. “...there’s some humor in it.”</p><p>“And you look pretty fucking hot wearing it.”</p><p>She swats him lightly over the head. “Git,” she mutters, but lets him kiss her again anyway. If America had any chaste intentions to begin with, they disappear quickly as his mouth opens wider and he kisses England with more insistence. </p><p>She pauses — as if to consider — before accepting his overeagerness (but not giving in, of course. Not <em> England. </em> ) Grinning against her, he pulls her onto his lap, letting her lean above him, cup his face in her hands, press down from her vantage point. It’s a position America himself prefers (and they were cut from the same branch, were they not?), but this evening, <em> now </em>, he reclines into the back of the sofa, letting England curve over him. </p><p>Well, all right. He’s not entirely innocent in his decision, and England is well aware, pulling back from a kiss and fixing America with an all-too-well-knowing gaze. It’s mixed parts fondness and exasperation. America abandons the skirt zipper he was fiddling with to shamelessly cup her breasts again, thumbs scooped into the tea cup handles.</p><p>“You have the look of a fat child who’s eaten far too much chocolate,” Enlgland announces, rocking her hips against America’s hardening cock in punctuation. She intends some rise out of him, looking far too much like a cat with cream still on her tongue. </p><p>“As long as it’s your chocolate, right?” he says, pulling England up a little so he can slide skirt and panties off. To his luck, she wasn’t wearing her garters today (although another day...maybe, maybe). “You <em> are </em> always telling me that yours has the real sugar <em> , sugar </em>.” He obnoxiously winks at her, flashing her his trademark Hollywood smile as she shimmies out of her skirt. </p><p>England rewards him with a dead stare, but the twitch of her lips inwards betray her. America lifts up his eyebrows and laughs as she instead forcibly curls her mouth into a scowl, relieving him of his own clothes in the meantime. “If only you would be so sickeningly sweet to me when you didn’t want something,” England complains. </p><p>America says nothing out loud to that, instead brazenly running his hands top down until they slide in between England’s thighs. England sighs, America’s fingers trailing across her folds, thumb occasionally brushing her clit. Her hands tighten painfully on his shoulders as America teases her slit and teases moans out of her. </p><p>But America isn’t all too patient of a man, especially not with a nearly naked England on top of him. He pushes one finger in, then another, lazily pumping them in and out of her. His other hand holds her up, stopping England from breaking his wrist as she desperately grinds down onto his fingers inside of her. If there is anyone who outstrips him in patience, it’s England.  Hair loosely strewn across her shoulders, her eyes struggling to remain open, it takes considerable self control not to impale her on his cock right away. </p><p>In the end, it’s the fucking T-cups that do it, porcelain cupping porcelain breasts that shudder along with its owner. America can’t help his own haggard breaths that escape him as he removes his fingers, bringing them to his lips to obscenely clean them off. He matches England’s gaze and hears her choked sob, her own fingers searching for his cock. “Hold on now, he murmurs.</p><p>He strokes himself to full hardness instantly enough, and England leans back with his direction.  They breathe out in tandem as America sinks his cock into her. </p><p>England, shifts, accommodating his cock at a better angle as she braces her legs on either side of him. The couch she was on wasn’t small, per se (and America knows there is a joke about American sizes waiting, somewhere here), but the position is cramped. England leans back to try and support herself on the armrests, but they are too far apart to provide any sort of grip. “Typical American couches,” England predictably grumbles. </p><p>America laughs into her ear. “Relax,” he says cheekily, knowing it will get a rise out of England. He stops her snappy comeback, easily lifting her clean off him to flip her around and press her back against her chest.</p><p>Keeping one of her legs lifted up, he fumbles beneath her to find his cock. She slaps his hand off and he hides a grin in her hair, letting go and lifting her up her other leg to bare her to the living room. She grasps his cock at the base and slides her hand slowly up, before pressing his cock back into her.</p><p>Concurrent sighs escape them once more. England, ever impatient, begins insistently trying to move, succeeding only in grinding herself down on America’s cock instead. She throws him a cross look. </p><p>“Stop teasing me,” she demands. The overall commanding effect is diminished as America looks down and sees how well she takes his cock, how perfectly spread she is around him, and the tea-cups pressing her breasts together for him. </p><p>Instead, he says, “whatever my lady wants,” in a horribly posh accent. He doesn’t wait for her response, instead starting to fuck her in ernest. He holds her legs apart as he bounces her on his cock, bucking his hips upwards to match his movements. </p><p>England closes her eyes and rests her head back, letting soft moans escape her. America can’t decide where to keep his eyes: on her face as she tries to smother any pleasure, his cock as it slides easily in and out of her sex, or her breasts as they bounce up and down as he rocks her. </p><p>The tea cups are also wobbling with the movement, which would be hilarious if it weren’t so fucking hot. America wishes he had a mirror across him in his living room to watch, to see England fucked so well. He’ll settle for his vantage point, where he can look down and see her held apart by him as he thrusts into her. </p><p>“Open your eyes,” he tells her. </p><p>She does so instinctively. “What now,” she grouses, even as high-pitched moans escape her. America doesn’t answer, only pointedly looking down at the tea cups. </p><p>England follows his gaze. “Oh my fucking god,” she mutters. “This was, <em> ah </em>, your plan all along, wasn’t it?”</p><p>“Maybe,” America admits. His head is beginning to feel dizzy, the rush of pleasure getting to him. He picks up the pace, slamming her up and back down on him.</p><p>The tea cups begin to clink as he moves faster. </p><p>America can’t stop the snort of laughter that escapes him. He buries his head in her shoulder, kissing her neck as he futilely tries to stifle his laughs. “I hate you,” England tries to say, but her words draw out in a moan as America changes his angle and hits her <em> right there </em>.</p><p>“Aw, babe, you don’t mean that,” says America.</p><p>“Shut up and fuck me,” England responds. One hand reaches up to grip painfully in his hair, as the other comes down to rub at her clit. America lets out an appreciative groan. </p><p>“Fuck, England,” he grits out. “I’m-I’m gonna-”</p><p>“Come,” she commands, and he does, continuing to thrust through his orgasm. England tightens painfully around him, and he chokes out as a gasp, before the air is filled with sounds of her suppressed moans as she comes as well. </p><p>They lay there for a few moments, catching their breath. England opens her eyes and looks up lazily at America. They hold each other’s gaze for a microsecond before breaking into peals of laughter. </p><p>“You—you fucking bastard,” England makes out in between gasps for air. “I can’t believe you’ve done this. I can’t believe <em> I </em> did this! <em> ” </em>She reaches down to pull America’s softening cock out of her, and then turns around to cuddle up against him (or fall asleep, as she is want to do). The cup handles push into his chest, abruptly aborting her movement. America looks down at the scene wide-eyed, before falling back into howls of laughter once more. </p><p>“I’m getting off,” England mock threatens, face completely reddened from laughing. America sucks in much needed air and pulls her close, ignoring the pinch of the tea cups into him. “I love you,” he says, mouth pressing into the curve of her shoulder as he shakes in mirth again. England runs her own fingers through his hair, holding him close. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>“I didn’t go to war over <i>just</i> tea, by the way. It was a complex matter.”</p><p>America’s arms tighten around her, cocooning her closer to him. “Less talk, more sleep,” he grumbles.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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